A week passed. A week in which a stunned nation attempted to pick up the pieces. Yuma was declared a federal disaster area and money and men were rushed into the city before the last of the dead had been laid to rest. A congressional inquiry was launched, but when its report was delivered to the President's desk nine months later, nowhere in its 16,000 pages was mention that on Christmas Day the President of the United States had given the order to drop an atomic bomb on an American City.
That black page was never entered into the U.S. history books. And so only a handful of people ever knew that Yuma had been saved by a television broadcast by the late, great Bartholomew Bronzini.
Because of that omission, the controversy over Bronzini's true role on the Battle of Yuma was never satisfactorily resolved.
Slowly the nation went back to normal. A new year and a new decade were marked on January 1, and although the celebrations were subdued, nowhere was the holiday celebrated with deeper feeling than in Yuma, Arizona, where many Americans had learned for the first time what it truly meant to be free.
On the first day of the new year, Remo Williams opened his eyes. He stared up at the blank white ceiling of a private hospital room in Folcroft Sanitarium. His mind was a blank too.
At first the doctor thought the opening of his eyes was a mere involuntary reflex. The patient had been in a coma for a full seven days. He tested the pupils with a penlight. The reaction he got prompted him to call Dr. Harold W. Smith.
Smith entered the hospital-white room and dismissed the doctor quietly. After he had withdrawn, Smith drew up to Remo's bedside, noticing that the bluish tinge of his throat had largely faded. Remo's brown eyes followed him with only vague comprehension.
"Smitty," Remo croaked.
"What do you remember?" Smith asked flatly.
"Falling. Parachute didn't work. Tried to equalize my mass so I could float to the ground. It was starting to work. Then I made a big mistake."
"What was that?"
"I opened my eyes. Up to that moment, I was doing great. Then the desert jumped me. That's the last thing I remember."
"You were fortunate to survive. Your neck was sprained. I don't know how you escaped breaking it."
"Simple. I landed on my face. Where's Chiun?"
"I called him. He'll be here soon. Remo, there are a number of things you should know."
Remo pushed himself up with both hands. He grunted with the effort. "What's that?"
Before Smith could answer, the Master of Sinanju swept into the room. He wore a simple blue kimono. Remo cracked a weak smile. "Hey, Little Father, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the movies." Chiun's austere face softened momentarily. Then, as he spotted an aquamarine box beneath a tabletop Christmas tree, it hardened.
"How long has he been awake?" Chiun demanded of Smith.
"Only a few moments."
"And he has not seen fit to open the present I so carefully prepared for him," Chiun said, annoyed.
"Present?" Remo asked doubtfully.
"Yes, graceless one," Chiun said, going to the tree. He picked up the aquamarine box and presented it to Remo, who accepted it in both hands.
"Feels light," he said, hefting it.
"It contains a present beyond worth," Chiun assured him.
"Really?" Remo said, trying to sit straight. "Is it Christmas yet? Can I open it now?"
"Christmas was last week," Smith told him.
"I've been out a week! Boy, I must have really taken a fall."
"Perhaps it is your white laziness that has reasserted itself once more," Chiun suggested coolly.
"I'm glad to see the spirit of the season hasn't completely overwhelmed your compassionate understanding of your fellow human beings," Remo remarked dryly.
"While you have been a lazy slugabed," Chiun went on, "I have been explaining to your emperor that even though you failed, it should not be held against you. True, I am now forced once again to accompany you on your assignments, but-"
"Failed?" Remo asked.
"Bronzini is dead," Smith said quietly.
"What happened?" Remo asked, shocked.
"It's a long story," Smith said. "When you're better, I'll brief you on the details. Suffice it to say Bronzini is a national hero."
"He is?"
"He saved the city."
"He did?"
"But no one can ever know," Smith cautioned.
"Well, they won't get it from me. And to tell you the truth, I didn't really like the guy."
"You must not have gotten to know him very well."
"Actually, I only met him in passing," Remo admitted. "He struck me as an egotistical jerk."
"That may be," Smith admitted. "He was a complex man." Smith turned to Chiun. "That reminds me. The autopsy on Nemuro Nishitsu has been made public. It seems that he died of an upper respiratory failure brought on by a common cold. I thought you said you eliminated him."
"Who's Nemuro Nishitsu?" Remo asked. He was ignored.
"I have told you how this Bartholomew Bronzini was the reincarnation of Alexander the Great?" Chiun asked.
"He what!" Remo exploded.
"I cannot say I can yet bring myself to accept that premise," Smith said.
"It is true. And one of my ancestors dispatched him."
"As I recall, Alexander died of malaria."
"True. That is how history records it. But the true fate of Alexander lies in the pages of historical records found only in the Book of Sinanju. The truth is as follows . . ."